Pure Slush

flash ... without the wank

In flight Entertainment

<  A Vegetarian in Texas

by Cheryl Anne Gardner            4:26AM  >

 

"Go after what you want, with a vengeance," she said through the drainpipe down the backend of a sequined thong as she handed me a small cello package with what looked to be an overcooked corndog in it. Cell phones, sex assaults, and rudeness. The budget package they called it, complete with dinner and light entertainment. Fly the compromised sky: Blue Toenail Airlines. At least the rodents haven't chewed through the fuselage yet. And so it began. It always begins this way, with a chill in the blood. I do this twice a year: dial 911 while I'm packing, ditch the meds, and sweat it out cold in mid-air, but this time, the stewardess won't stop talking. She'd posed nude, run the porn circuit, even got an honorary mention and a small gold-plated trophy in the shape of a cock. She was an emotional eater, a sniff-before-tasting never-take-no-for-an-answer kinda girl. Fitting really. She said recovery was a state of mind, that I was on the right path, and when I looked around, the crowd of passengers were cheering me on. She had one of those silky smooth accents -- French maybe -- the kind that could deliver authority straight to your groin. She was convincing, and so I took a small labored breath, like it was a favor at my own expense. "Breathe," I told myself. "Just breathe ... and keep staring at that flashing light." The one that told me to keep myself strapped in. I would, of course, gritting my teeth while waiting for the tinkling trolley to come darting past with its absurd collection of tiny little binge vials. Six, seven, ten with or without ice, and then the wheels touch down. It feels like a bomb blast in a subway station, and I can just barely hear myself screaming ...

 

published 15 May 2011